In the Hall of the Dragon King

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The door clanged shut, and the footsteps receded again down the corridor.

  Durwin raced to the fallen prisoner with Alinea, who stood at his side. Trenn lurched forward and bent over the body. He looked up at the others. “Here is our hope,” he said quietly.

  “Theido!” cried Alinea as Durwin rolled the man into his arms.

  The knight’s face had been beaten bloody and bruised; dark purplish marks swelled beneath his eyes and over one temple. His eyes were open but unseeing, cloudy from the torture he had just undergone.

  “If only we had some water,” said Alinea. “There is none left of the ration we were given this morning.”

  But Durwin was already at work. He placed a hand over Theido’s forehead and, speaking strange words under his breath, made a sign with his fingers and then lightly touched each bruise. A moan of pain escaped Theido’s lips.

  “He will sleep now. Here. Help me get him untied.”

  In fact, the sturdy knight hardly slept at all. No sooner had they loosed him from his bonds than he awakened again. The cloudiness was gone from his eyes, but he seemed a moment coming to himself. He blinked and peered into the faces of each of his friends. “You are alive!” he cried at last.

  “Oh, Theido, we have been worried about you,” said Alinea, reaching out her hand to clasp his.

  “They told me all were killed in the wreck. They said you had drowned and they had left you on the beach for the birds.”

  “Lies!” Trenn, his face black with rage, ground his teeth and clenched his fists.

  “Where is Ronsard?” asked Theido, pushing himself slowly off the filthy floor.

  “Have you not seen him, then?” questioned Alinea.

  “No, I saw no one—not even my captors. I was dragged from the beach half full of seawater and still groggy. I didn’t even hear them coming.”

  “When was this?”

  “I do not remember . . . midday perhaps, or close to.”

  “We were taken at dawn yesterday,” explained Durwin. “They must have gone back and searched the beach more thoroughly.”

  “Then Ronsard is gone?” The queen’s voice quavered.

  “Now we do not know that for certain. He may still be alive—we all survived the wreck.”

  “But were not injured as he was,” said Trenn roughly. “Ronsard is dead.”

  “We will not think on it for the time being,” advised Theido. “Trenn, have you made an inspection of this cursed place?” He looked slowly around in the gloom.

  The queen’s warder nodded silently and spread his hands in frustration.

  “I see. Then—”

  “Listen!” said Durwin. Theido, the words still on his tongue, fell silent. Far down the corridor the sound of returning footsteps could be heard. “They’re coming back.”

  “Probably for another one of us to torture,” said Trenn. “I’ll go, and welcome it!”

  “No, they will not take another one of us,” replied Theido. “We will fight first.”

  The footsteps were now just outside the dungeon entrance. The sharp grating of the bolt thrust aside and the creak of the opening door on its rusting hinges filled the chamber.

  Once more two soldiers ducked in, throwing their torches ahead of them; then the guard entered, with his long halberd glinting cold and bright in the glare of the torches.

  Following the guard came a short, hunched figure who stood quietly behind the others, off to one side. Behind him came a dark shape that thrust itself through the door and into the sphere of light cast by the torches. The prisoners saw the black hair with its shock of white streaks.

  “Nimrood!” cried Durwin.

  “None other.” The sorcerer smiled treacherously. “And now I see our little party is complete.” He gazed on them one by one and then drew himself up to full height and shouted, “You fools! Trifle with Nimrood the Necromancer! I shall blast you all to cinders!”

  He swept down the steps, his black cloak fluttering through the damp air like a bat’s wing. He came to stand in front of Theido, who did not move a muscle but stood his ground, unperturbed.

  “I will begin with you, my upstart knight, my ‘Hawk.’ Oh yes!” he hissed at Theido’s recognition of the name. “You see, I have long had my eyes on you. But you’ll not burn, like these others. I have better plans for you. Much better. I’ve a special place for you, my knight.”

  “I will die before I serve you,” replied Theido coolly.

  “You will. Oh yes, I daresay you will,” cackled the evil wizard. “But not before you’ve watched your friends die screaming.” Spittle flew from his foaming lips. He threw a fearsome scowl to the others, whirled, and flew back up the steps.

  Nimrood stood again in the torchlight, looking like a phantom in the darkness that surrounded him. He hesitated as he turned to leave, then turned back. “I would begin at once with you”—he smiled at the captives, again that treacherous grimace—“but that will have to wait,” he continued. “I have a coronation to attend—it might interest you to know. There will be time enough for our diversions when that is done.”

  “What coronation?” asked Durwin.

  “Oh, you pretend not to know. I will tell you—Prince Jaspin, of course. Midsummer’s Day. Very soon Askelon will have a new king! Ha, ha, ha! I leave you at once. I shall relay to him your warmest regards. And you, Queen Alinea—you think I did not recognize you? The prince has wondered after your disappearance. I will tell him what you have been up to—tell him about all of you, and my plans for you.”

  Nimrood turned at once and vanished through the doorway, followed by the stooped man and the soldiers. The prisoners could hear his insane laughter as he fled down the corridor. His voice echoed back to them like a thunder of doom.

  “Sleep well, my friends! Pleasant dreams! Ha! Ha!” His laughter became a strangled choke. “Ha, ha, ha-a-a-a!”

  37

  The sounds of men working, laboring to unload the ship’s stores, had died down. Quentin pressed his ear against the side of the barrel and listened. He could hear nothing but the gentle slap of waves against the hull of the ship, as if far in the distance, but no doubt very close by. Occasionally he heard the squawk of a seabird soaring high above. All sounds reaching him from outside the heavy oaken barrel were muffled and indistinct.

  He had filled the hours aboard the ship dozing and waiting, listening in the dark of his small prison and aching to stretch his legs, but not daring to move a muscle. At last, when every nerve and fiber cried out for relief, he had allowed himself to change position. Finding room enough, and having once braved the move with no dire result, he allowed more frequent repositionings, still remaining as quiet as he could.

  Periodically, he had pushed the cap from the bunghole and let fresh air rush into the stuffy confines of his barrel. He pressed his face to the hole and peered out but could see nothing of the ship’s activity. This was both good and bad, thought Quentin. For it permitted him to draw air more frequently without fear of anyone noticing the slight movement of the cap. But it also meant that he could have no hint of warning if he were discovered, and no view of the deck to see when they reached their destination.

  So he relied upon his ears to tell him what was taking place around him. He had been sleeping when the barrel was heaved up and carried off the ship. The sensation of being lifted, without warning, and jostled awake while swinging through space so surprised him that he had stifled a startled shout.

  But then he had been bumped down upon the beach—there had been no resounding thump, as on the deck of the ship when he had been thrown down—so he guessed they had unloaded the cargo upon the sand.

  He waited then for sounds of unloading and the noise of men grunting and cursing their duty to diminish before plucking up his courage to risk another peep through the bunghole.

  This new view from his tiny window was more encouraging. His barrel seemed to be situated close by a wooden ramp, seen from below as it slanted down from the top of his peepho
le. This, he guessed, was the crude dock that teetered out into the bay used by Nimrood’s men. Beyond the ramp he could see a length of shoreline where waves washed in gently amid the roar of breakers farther out. A few standing rocks marked the beach, and Quentin could see from the long shadows reaching out in the bay from these stones that the sun was well down and sliding toward evening.

  He could see no sailors or guards nor anything that would indicate another human presence nearby. Very well, he said to himself, wait for darkness.

  Quentin had just closed up the bunghole and settled back into his curled position in the barrel when he heard a slight jingling sound— which grew steadily louder—and then the dull murmur of voices. Two men, he imagined, talking together. Then the snort of a horse and the grinding creak of a wheel upon the sand. A wagon, he thought. They’ve brought a wagon.

  “Well, let’s to it, then,” one voice said, muffled through the sides of the keg. Quentin removed the cap to hear them better.

  “Not so fast!” said the other voice. “The others will be along in a little. They can help.”

  “But it will be dark soon. I do not fancy driving this wagon back up there in the dark. It is bad enough in the daylight.”

  “Then we’ll stay the night here. What difference does it make? Don’t be so skittish.”

  “Brave talk! You’ve not been here as long as I have; heard the things I’ve heard; seen the things I’ve seen. I tell you—”

  “And I tell you to shut your mouth! I don’t need to hear your tales. By Zoar! You’re a weak one, you are.”

  “I know things, I tell you. If I’m afeared of this place at night, it’s because I’ve seen things—”

  “You’ve seen nothing that can’t be seen anywhere else. Now shut up! I don’t want to hear it.”

  The other man fell to mumbling to himself after that angry exchange. Quentin could not make out the words, but he knew that he now had to think quickly. He’d been offered a new choice. Either to wait and be loaded on the wagon with the rest of the supplies, or to try making an escape now before the others returned. He replaced the cap slowly and hung for a moment in indecision: wait or go.

  Quentin decided to wait. A clean entrance into the castle unsuspected would be better than floundering around outside the enemy’s lair. But just as he reached this decision, the choice was snatched from him.

  “Hey!” cried one of the men at the wagon. “Something moved over there by one of the barrels.”

  “There you go again! Be quiet! I’m trying to sleep,” the other snapped angrily.

  “It moved, I tell you! One of the barrels moved!” the first protested.

  “To Heoth with you and your moving barrel! I’ll show you there’s nothing there. Which one was it?”

  Quentin heard the tread of the man shuffling through the sand, coming closer. “There, that one on the end,” pointed out the frightened worker, following the brave one.

  Three steps closer. Quentin’s heart pounded loud in his ears. He imagined a drumbeat that could be heard all along the beach.

  He heard the man breathing. The footsteps had stopped right beside him. He could hear the rustle of the man’s clothing as he stood looking down upon him. “There’s nothing here, by Zoar!”

  “I saw something. It was here a moment ago.”

  “A shadow.”

  “It was no shadow. There’s something strange about these barrels.”

  “Look, will you! There’s not a blasted thing here! By the gods! Do I have to open the barrels and prove it to you?”

  Quentin’s heart seized in his chest as if it had been squeezed in a giant’s fist.

  He heard the scrape of something heavy on the lid of the keg. They were taking off the lid.

  Quentin drew his feet up underneath him and crouched.

  The lid wobbled loose.

  “Well, look at that,” said the worker. “This lid is hardly fastened.”

  At that instant Quentin shot up out of the barrel, throwing the wooden covering into the man’s face and shouting as loud as he could.

  As he came leaping out of the barrel, he caught a glimpse of the terrified worker as he turned and tumbled over himself in an effort to flee. The other, startled almost as badly by this strange, screaming creature that leaped out of barrels, fell backward in the sand, the keg lid catching him on the side of the head.

  “Toli!” Quentin yelled. “Run for it! We are discovered!”

  Toli, well aware of what had taken place, burst from his keg in an instant and started across the strand and into the wooded tract ahead.

  The worker sitting among the barrels came to his senses as the two raced off. The other cowered beneath the wagon, his head buried in the sand. “Here come the others! Nimrood’s soldiers—they’ll get ’em,” the first cried.

  Quentin glanced over his shoulder as he ran. Marching down the beach he saw a dozen soldiers, some with long spears, others with swords drawn, not far behind the two workers who were now gesturing wildly and pointing in their direction.

  He turned, put his head down, and sped into the woods. “Run, Toli. Run! They’re right behind us! Lead us away from here!”

  With barely a pause in midflight, Toli’s quick eyes scanned the thinly wooded area. Then, like a deer before the arrow, he was off, heading into the deeper, more thickly grown regions beyond.

  It was all Quentin could do to keep up. Toli, alert and every instinct keen, was back in his own element. He seemed to flicker through the dense undergrowth effortlessly, dodging, feinting, slipping through small openings and sliding over rocks and trunks of fallen trees.

  At first Quentin stumbled and fell over his own feet, sprawling, lurching, and pounding along behind. But then, by imitating Toli, by dodging where he dodged and ducking where he ducked, Quentin found the going easier. He forgot his fear and ran completely free. His head soared with the cool exhilaration of flight.

  Behind them he could hear the soldiers crashing through the woods after them. They had fanned out to keep better sight of their quarry. They cursed as they came, thrashing through thickets and brush, entangling themselves in briars and low-hanging branches.

  Twice Toli stopped for a brief rest, and to listen. Each time the sounds of pursuit were farther away, receding into the evening sounds of the woods.

  “It will be dark soon,” said Toli. He lifted his gaze to the sky, which still held a glimmer of light. But all around them the deeper woods were sinking rapidly into darkness. Already Quentin found it difficult to tell the column of a tree trunk from its dark surroundings.

  “They cannot follow us much longer . . . We seem to be losing them.” Both thoughts were questions; Quentin asked for reassurance.

  “They will not catch us now,” offered Toli. “But we must keep going. We will find a place to camp tonight.” He turned and swiveled his head this way and that. He listened for the sounds of their pursuers, cocking his head to one side. “Stay close,” he said and raced off again.

  This time they changed directions and began ascending the rise of a hill. The path rose steadily, and each step grew a little shorter. Toli slowed to allow for the climb but pushed steadily on.

  The noises in the woods behind them died away. Quentin guessed that either the soldiers had given up or they had lost them completely.

  But now Quentin trained his ear on other sounds: the sounds of the deep woods coming to life with the night. For the greens of leaves and moss, the browns of trees and earth, and the blues of shadow had merged into one confused hue. He followed Toli now with his ears instead of his eyes as he trailed blindly along.

  “Oof!” Quentin went down with a grunt. He had caught his toe on a root across the path and pitched forward onto his face. Toli heard him fall and came back. “Let us stop,” suggested Quentin. “Just for a little while. It is too dark to run like this.”

  “I forgot, Kenta—you do not have night eyes.” Toli stood still and turned his head, listening. Quentin heard a strange snuffling sound
. Toli seemed to be smelling the air.

  “This is a very bad place. We cannot stay here,” the Jher said at last. He reached down a hand and hoisted Quentin to his feet and struck off again, but slower this time.

  Still the path continued to climb; then, without any sign, it descended steeply. They reached the bottom of a gorge cut into the earth by the rain. A small, turgid stream flowed nearby. Quentin could hear it. A foul-smelling mist was beginning to rise, seeping out of the ground around them, clinging to their legs in tattered wisps as they moved through its grasping tendrils.

  An owl called from somewhere overhead and was answered by its mate far away. Other sounds—sly chirruping, furtive rustles in dry leaves beneath bushes as they passed, the whirr of unseen wings—crept out of the woods as the night took hold of the land.

  Once Quentin heard a faint whiz in the air close by and felt a flutter on his cheek. He recoiled from the soft contact as from a blow. When he reached his hand up to feel where the touch occurred, his cheek was wet with a sticky substance. He wiped it off with a grimace and trudged on.

  The malodorous mist thickened and rose higher, swirling in eddies upon the pools of air. Quentin imagined that it dragged at his legs as if to hold him back. He could no longer see his feet below him.

  He followed Toli, who seemed to take no unusual notice of all that went on around him, with a fragile resolve. He longed to turn aside from this wretched path and climb again into the woods.

  But he moved on.

  His foot struck a rotting limb, which snapped with a hollow crack that seemed to fill the gorge. Suddenly, from right beneath his feet, a wild shape came screaming up at him: white and formless as the mist and screeching in long, ringing cries that echoed through the woods. It flew straight up at him, and Quentin threw his hands in front of his face as the creature lunged at him. But at the moment of collision, Quentin felt nothing. He parted his hands to see the white wings of a bird lifting away into the gorge ahead.